


Legends of the Drabble: Whumptober Edition

by thatonecrazydramakid



Category: Legends of the Sword - Jasper Hunter Howlter
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, On Hiatus, Violence, Whump, Whumptober, more to be added - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-25 16:29:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20915111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatonecrazydramakid/pseuds/thatonecrazydramakid
Summary: Prompt “stabbed”. In short, a night in Vega’s capital goes very, very wrong for Spencer Hunter.





	1. Explanation

So essentially, I’m total garbage and even though a) October is my favorite month, b) whump is my preferred style to read, and c) I have three/four different prompt lists to use, I blanked that this is Whumptober! Anyways, I’ll do as much as I can today during the free time I have (this was written Wednesday), because I have an evening college class, two quizzes, and a presentation where I did 85% of the work. Ha high school SUCKS (but I’ve known as much since freshman year). But yeah, I’ll get this done as soon as I can and the chapters for 10/1 and 10/2 should be up by Thursday!


	2. 10/1--Stabbed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt “stabbed”. In short, a night in Vega’s capital goes very, very wrong for Spencer Hunter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we all know Spencer is a person rather…prone to being stabbed, even canonically. So, essentially, this is canon-typical violence for Arcacia.

He knew he was in trouble when he was grabbed from behind.

A dirty hand clamped over his mouth to keep him from screaming. After being dragged into an alley, he was roughly shoved forwards. Whipping around, he took in his two attackers. One of them was a burly, tall white man with short-cropped blonde hair and a scar on his chin, in ratty sailor’s attire. He was Alnihamian, from the look of it. His buddy was smaller, fair-skinned as well, with stringy hair hanging in front of his eyes and an oily smile. He looked like how a rat smelled and an eel felt.

“Hello there, young paladin. Could you spare any change?” The weaselly one asked, while the big one cracked his knuckles. Spencer stepped back, then squared his shoulders and dropped into a fighting stance. He wasn’t going to give them credit for scaring him. He could take them easily.

Still, may as well try diplomacy. “Let me go, and I’ll see.” He replied, keeping his defensive stance. His heart was pounding in his chest, adrenaline coursing through him.

The big guy lunged first, swinging for Spencer’s head.

He ducked to the side…and immediately felt something sharp slide between his unprotected ribs. Pain exploded through his side and he staggered back with a cry, hand darting to the wound. Blood spilled over his fingers and he backed up, eyes wide. The big guy lunged again. Spencer dodged back. The next stab found his left leg, blade sinking deep into his thigh. A third lodged in his stomach, followed by two more.

Desperate, he scrambled back as far as he could, pressing himself to a wooden door at the end of the alley with his chest heaving for each breath. The two men approached, weapons drawn. _No no no—_ _“SOMEONE HEL—”_

The small guy lunged for him, driving one of his knives deep into Spencer’s solar plexus. The other found a mark in his shoulder, pinning him to the door. “Now, now, little boy. We can’t have you crying wolf, now can we?” He asked, Spencer’s eyes darted to the man’s belt. Knives of various lengths and sharpness hung from hooks there. As they glinted in the dim streetlights’ rays, he couldn’t help but marvel at how beautiful the intricate carvings were. One of the long blades traced his jawline. “A pretty one like you would fetch quite a price on the market. What do you think, Chavers?”

Chavers shrugged, and his buddy raised the knife. Spencer squeezed his eyes shut—he didn’t want to see. There was a shuffling noise, and then something he somehow recognized as a person’s head being acquainted with a frying pan, followed by two thuds. “Hey, sweetie, are you okay?” Hands touched his cheeks and he flinched away, whimpering as the movement aggravated his wounds. “I won’t hurt you, I promise.” He opened his eyes—he was having to squint to focus them—and saw a woman in her early sixties crouching in front of him. She was Anirisian—a strange sight in the capital, usually they lived in the south—and from the lines by her eyes he could tell she smiled a lot. “Alright, honey, we’re going to get you off this door.” She made an odd gesture with her fingers and he slumped to the cobblestones as the knives removed themselves from the door. Helpless to stop it, he let out a pained whimper. “Ssh, honey, let’s get you inside.”

She helped him into the house behind them. The warm smell of roasting meat and spice matched the light, orangey-brown walls surrounding him. He was helped onto a table and told to lie down. Something was poured into his mouth, and the pain faded. However, he still felt the dim sensation of the knives being drawn from his body. The wounds seemed to magically stitch themselves back together, or maybe he passed out. “Thanks…” He whispered, unsure if she heard him. She stroked his hair once, told him it was okay to sleep now.

Closing his eyes again, he let everything fade away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol I probably did this wrong. I’ve never done a Whumptober before but spoiler: happy endings for most of them. Because I’m me/mean.  
Happy Spoopy Month!


	3. 10/2--Poisoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt “poisoned” Thomas is poisoned, but there’s one major problem—even he has no idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I screwed up and thought that this was Willow’s chapter, and while I’m sure poisoning happens amongst the aristocratic families of Vega, I highly doubt Thomas is stupid enough to eat some random chocolates so I had to change the OG catalyst. Willow would probably assume they’re from a family member or someone attempting to gain her favor, not take her life.  
Anyways, let’s forget my mistake and get started!

When he woke up with a headache, Thomas knew he was in trouble.

It was midterms for the Academy, and also the midst of cold and flu season. If he got ill, he either wouldn’t show up or wouldn’t be able to focus. He could not afford either. Even if he had a headache and a hundred-degree temperature.

Splashing some water in his face in the sink, he pulled on some winter clothes (for a _coastal _region, Vega certainly _snowed a lot_). As he did, he noticed his hands shaking and how oddly weak he felt. _No. You cannot get sick. Get sick in a week, not today._

Still, as he walked the halls, he felt awful. The mere thought of food made his stomach want to revolt. He actually held his breath walking by the mess hall.

The day passed in an agonizingly slow fashion and far too quick of one at the same time. He found himself hacking _the whole time_. First period, coughing. Second, more coughing. Third, fourth, fifth, sixth—_coughing!_ “Maybe you should get some rest,” Micah suggested, gently touching Thomas’ shoulder. The slight change in pressure sent a tingly pain across Thomas’ skin and he jerked away.

“I’m _fine_.” He snarled, stalking off. As he did, he felt Micah’s gaze burning into his back. He ducked around a corner and a knife stabbed into his stomach. For a split second, he glanced around in shock, but found no one. There wasn’t any blood, any sign of a knife in his stomach. _What the—what’s happening to me?_

Dismayed, he did his best to shake it off when the pain faded, and then calmly went to his next class.

Things didn’t get worse until the next day, at about two a.m. He woke up, soaked in sweat, to what felt like a hot poker being driven into his stomach and twisted painfully. Curling on his side, teeth gritted, he faintly wondered if this was really just a bad case of the flu or something worse. The nausea didn’t fade for the next four hours of sleeplessness, waiting for him to cough up what little he’d choked down for dinner last night. His throat felt tight—not in the way it did when he was nervous, but in a smothering, suffocating way.

Whether he liked it or not, he really was sick.

When he finally hauled himself from bed, he almost dropped to the ground the second his feet touched the carpet. He was barely strong enough to hold himself up. Putting on heavy winter clothes didn’t help either—his skin was still hypersensitive, and burning up.

Still, he dragged himself through his first three classes, wishing he could stay in the dorm the whole time.

Micah stuck with him the whole time. He didn’t say anything, didn’t touch Thomas. He just…existed. It was kind of nice, honestly—the rest of the team had been so busy with midterms, they hadn’t really had the chance to commune. He’d even take his parents as company at this point.

All of a sudden, Thomas realized how blurry his vision was. Even Micah, who was right next to him, was distinctly fuzzy. Or…indistinctly fuzzy. Breathing had gotten infinitely harder in the past few minutes—was it just the cold? Or he just wasn’t breathing right. Maybe he was sicker than he originally thought.

Or maybe—

He came to with a pounding head and icy snow pressing into his too-warm face, someone’s hand on his shoulder. “Thomas? Thomas, come on, you have to say something!” Micah urged, a desperate pitch to his voice. Slowly, Thomas opened his eyes. He was lying on the ground—did he slip on ice? What happened?

“Wh-what happened?” He weakly choked out, trying to sit up. His arms shook before he even put weight on them and Micah pulled him close, supporting him against his chest.

“You passed out. Hey, someone get Queen Lyra!” Micah glanced around. “Spencer! Willow! Get your mother! Naomi, Lark, get over here!” Thomas saw them rush over, noticed the concern in their gazes. Another painful cramp struck him, and he gasped in pain, curling around himself.

Footsteps crunched in the snow and hands touched his face. “Thomas. Thomas, I need you to focus on me. I need you to breathe and stay conscious. Stay with us.” Lyra ordered, and Thomas managed a weak nod. Everything was fading in and out, a red-black haze clouding the edges, and he couldn’t breathe. His chest was heaving, but he wasn’t getting any air. “Thomas!”

Everything faded, and he sank into darkness for a long while.

When he finally resurfaced and woke up, everything was worse. He was on fire. It was coursing through his blood.

Something was stuck down his throat, forcing air into his lungs to help him breathe. Someone’s hands were wrapped around his, gently massaging his fingers.

He fought to open his eyes, exhausted. It was as if all his energy had been sapped from him, like he’d run a marathon. Lark was next to him, and he was surrounded by the white and dark maroon shades of the Academy’s infirmary. To his left, an EKG beeped shakily, and he could just make out eight blurry shapes in the room. One was Lark, and she reached over and brushed his sweat-soaked hair away from his eyes. The rest of the team had pulled chairs over, too, gathering around him in a semi-circle. Simon was there, talking with Naomi quietly. Behind them, Queen Lyra was speaking with someone he was pretty sure was a doctor.

Eyes half-open, vision as blurry as a window that hadn’t been dusted in years, he let out a groan of pain. His chest ached—everything ached, really. “Ssh, Thomas, you’re okay. Stay with us this time, though. Do you think you can do that?” Lark asked gently, and he managed to nod. Pain shot up his spine at the simple movement, and he reflexively clenched Lark’s hand, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Can’t we give him anything?” Simon asked. Thomas managed to open his eyes in time to see Micah shake his head. “Why?”

“That poison I told you about doesn’t exactly react well with painkillers. If they try to give him anything…it might kill him.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Micah sighed, and Thomas weakly managed to reach over and grab Simon’s wrist. He glanced over, and Thomas tried to send a reassuring smile his brother’s way. He sent a tight one in return, and Naomi gently touched Simon’s shoulder as if to reassure him, too.

“They’re synthesizing the antidote now, so it should only be a few hours. We got it in time, thankfully.” Micah slouched into his chair, arms crossed across his chest. “It’s not fun to see people dying from this, trust me.”

“Probably the Cardinals down in southwest Vega. They’re not exactly fans of us.” Simon grimaced as he spoke.

“What happened?” Willow’s voice was both intrigued and concerned.

Thomas and Simon exchanged a look. Despite his aching body and burning blood, Thomas managed another smile. “Well, _Thomas _didn’t do anything wrong. Long story short, a couple of years ago we were there for some fancy dinner, and one of their servant boys there is hotter than a desert in July…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We watched Frankenstein in film class today (Friday), and as a result of my English teacher being awesome, we got a mostly free period (which is where I wrote this). Now, on to chapter three!  
Hi, ho, Zero, away!


	4. 10/3--Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt “fever”. Lark gets sick, her parents can’t come for the weekend, and to make it worse Tobiah has decided to give them a Unit Test worth 75% of their grade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> : Look, it’s something that hasn’t happened in the OG Legends of the Drabble—a girl getting hurt! Poor Lark, she’s going to have a very bad Friday.

She woke up at five a.m., horribly sick and hugging her teddy bear to her chest. She always got sick at the Academy in October—probably a pumpkin allergy or something of the like, maybe the candles?—and it always sucked. Her nose got all stuffy and she could feel it in her chest and she almost _always _had to deal with the bane of all people with a uterus.

So she was, as one would expect, absolutely miserable.

And as if things _could not possibly be any worse_, she had a _fever. _

So there she was, lying in her room, too weak to get out of bed to even turn the lights on, let alone go to class. Around six, someone knocked on her door. “Hey, Lark? You up?” Micah called, checking in on everyone like he always did. He opened the door and walked in, not even fazed by the darkness. “You look like a wreck. Allergies?” She nodded, rolling on to her side and pulling her knees up to her chest. Her hair stuck to her neck, sweaty and gross and irritating. Every so often, she had the violent urge to shear it all off, but she never did. “I’ll give you some meds after breakfast. How’s Aunt Scarlet treating you?”

Lark snuggled Mr. Beans closer to her chest, moaning, “I want her to leave town.”

Micah laughed and gently rubbed Lark’s shoulder. “I know. Come on, sweetheart, you have a test to take. Tobiah’s an idiot teacher.”

“Yeah he is.” Lark mumbled, smiling a little. Micah returned it, then helped her out of bed.

She struggled through her classes that day, and she was fairly certain her parents wouldn’t be able to make it to the Academy that weekend. All her focus was either outside the classroom or inside her head. Somehow, she managed to trudge through Tobiah’s test, although she had a feeling she failed it pretty badly. “Come on, songbird, let’s get you to bed.” Micah scooped her up as soon as they were out of their stupid history teacher’s classroom (_when did he get that strong?_) and carried her through a few back hallways to their dorm block. “Wow, you’re hot! In a good way, I promise! And in the feverish way, which isn’t as good.” He grinned at her as he set her on her bed. Handing her Mr. Beans, he straightened up and sent a cheery smile her way. If he were anyone else, she would have probably screamed at him to stop being so happy. “I’ll go get you some soup and those pills! You rest!”

He pulled the blankets over her hips and then left, and she snuggled Mr. Beans to her chest.

Even with her parents gone, at least she wasn’t alone—and maybe things wouldn’t be so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually love history. Anyways, this isn’t my best work (or my longest), but I still have two more chapters to type up and then upload.  
Stay spoopy!


	5. 10/4--Drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> : Prompt “drowning”. Micah has a run-in with a hostile water creature known as a hyppocampus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> : Fun fact—I’ve drowned twice in a swimming pool, but I’m not hydrophobic/aquaphobic, I’m thalassophobic. Don’t really know why I shared that but whatever.  
Hi, ho, Zero, away! (I actually hate that movie)

Water rushed around him, but Micah stubbornly kept his eyes and mouth shut. It was a low chance, but maybe if he ignored it the hyppocampus would go away.

Something smashed into his side and he was thrown against a rock. Bubbles escaped his mouth and fought to stay calm—_but he needed that—but he couldn’t panic because—his lungs burned—it hurt. _

The hyppocampus charged again, sharp teeth digging into his arm. Normally they weren’t so hostile—why was this one so _angry? _

Blood—his blood—clouded the water and he finally opened his eyes. Kicking desperately, he clawed for the surface. Air hit his fingers, and a little spurt of hope flared up in his chest.

Then teeth locked around his ankle and he was dragged back into the deep murk of the lake. _No. No no no someone help me! _The beast started tearing at his side and he let out a muffled scream, swinging at it. He barely even touched it before it reared back, snapping at his arm again.

He was going to die here.

The hyppocampus dragged him deeper, fangs digging deep into his wrist. Desperate but hopelessly weak from blood loss, Micah tried fighting back. _No—I don’t want to die—I don’t want to! _Abruptly, the hyppocampus released him. For a second, he drifted aimlessly in the water. The darkness closed in, and he struggled to even keep his eyes open. There was water in his lungs. He would die in minutes.

Above, he heard a distant, dim splash.

The shadows wrapped their fingers around him, and everything went dark.

When he came to, the first thing he did was cough up an enormous amount of water. He was lying on his side, soaked and cold and shaking, with sand pressing into his cheek. “Hey, you’re okay, we got you out in time.” Someone with dark hair reassured, leaning over him. Their hand was cupping his bleeding neck, applying pressure to the scrapes there. _Thomas? _No, wait, blue eyes—it was Simon.

“S-Si?” Overwhelmed by another bout of water-induced hacking, Micah was cut off from continuing. When he could finally breathe normally again, he gasped out, “I need-need to—”

“Go to the infirmary? I know. I’m just giving you a chance to recover first. Julian, can I have that blanket?” Something warm was wrapped around Micah’s shivering body, and Simon carefully scooped him up. “Alright, little cub, let’s get you to the doctors, okay?”

Micah leaned into him and closed his eyes, exhausted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> : Sorry that this is short but I’m in the homestretch and I can’t just stop now!


	6. 10/5-Hunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt “hunted”. How ironic that the very thing Willow has identified with will be the very thing to kill her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> : No idea when this takes place, other than before the events of The Lost Kingdom. It kind of just exists, I guess.

As she galloped through the forest, all Willow could do was pray her horse’s hooves wouldn’t falter.

The half-moon shone down through the bone-white branches of the long-dead forest around them. Ash marked the stumps of others, bathed the trunks and the earth. Bellows of the hunting wolves and the long strides of their owner’s gelding echoed through the still air. The draft horse was barely exerting any energy, calm and collected in his strides as his white-stockinged brown legs ate up the ground beneath him. Meanwhile, her slighter mount was huffing, spurred on only by the wolves nipping at its heels. Sienna flanks heaved as the flaxen chestnut fought to keep going.

One wolf lunged, and Willow grabbed her crossbow and sent a bolt flying into its side. It yelped, collapsing. She only had so many bolts—she wouldn’t risk using another.

Her pony quickened, hooves pounding hard on the ash-strewn dirt. They were approaching deep woods, which was both good and bad. With the living trees, the wolves and their master would have a harder time keeping up. However, she wouldn’t be able to see.

Leaning closer, she gave the pony all the rein she had as they whipped into the trees. An arrow whizzed by her cheek, lodging in a nearby trunk. Thorns scratched at her arms as they forged on, barreling along at top speed. Patches of moonlight flashed by, and she heard the wolves yelping as they were trapped in the thorns.

Their master slashed his way with a machete through vine tendrils and wolf alike, ignoring their howls of pain. Charging on after Willow, he levelled another arrow at her and fired. A second and third followed.

The first struck her shoulder, the second finding a home in her side. The third struck her mount in the flank, sending them pitching forwards down a hill. Whether the pony died at the bottom, or on the way down, she wasn’t sure. By the time it landed on her legs, crushing them, it was dead. She felt the bones snap and cried out, electric jolts of pain firing through her body.

The remaining wolves and her hunter appeared at the slope’s crest, and he dismounted. “How intriguing. The princess of Vega, done in by wolves.” He sneered, stalking towards the edge. “A shame dear old Dad isn’t here to save you, isn’t it?” He slid down the slope, pulling a wicked-looking sword from its sheath at his belt. The intricately carved silver blade was Alnihamian in origin. _An Alnihamian mercenary? Why is he in Vega? _Willow wondered—normally the mercs stayed to the coast, where towns hired them to protect them from pirates. He raised the sword, clearly to strike her down.

Someone struck _him _down first, however.

Lightning arced from the sky, striking him. The sword dropped from his hands and he fell to the side, lifeless. Two men slid down the slope behind her, and the dead pony was lifted off her with streams of blue magic. Kneeling by her side, Tobiah gently pressed a hand to her knee, and she felt her injuries magically stitch themselves back together. The arrows fell to the leaf mold below, bloodied but harmless.

The other, younger man pulled Willow into a tight bear hug, and she curled into him. “Hey, Dad.” She mumbled into his shoulder, arms around his neck. He scooped her up and carried her out of the ditch, speechless the entire time. “Are you mad?”

“Mad? Yes. At you? No.” Regulus held her closer for a moment, then lifted her onto his stallion’s saddle. Climbing on behind her, he added, “Let’s go home, okay?”

Relieved, she nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like this. I might expand on it later. Expect more sporadic, large updates, though, so there is no guarantee of what may happen next. This is the last chapter for tonight!


End file.
